


Wanna Bet?

by Brihna



Series: Brihna's Prompt-fills: 00Q [4]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: 00Q - Freeform, BAMF Q, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-03
Updated: 2016-05-03
Packaged: 2018-08-18 11:31:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8160643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brihna/pseuds/Brihna
Summary: For the OTP prompt meme:8. “Wanna bet?”





	

_Crack._

Q lowered the Beretta, studying the new hole in the center of the target at the end of the range with a slight tilt of the head. He engaged the safety and set it down on the tray one of his interns was holding before jotting down a few notes on a clipboard. “Thank you, Michael,” he said with a small smile. “That’ll suit 003 nicely. See that it’s added to her kit, will you?”

Michael gave a curt nod before slipping past Q to exit the range.

As Q added a few more notes to his clipboard, he could feel eyes on him. He lifted his head, noting the presence of 007 leaning against the doorframe in a dove grey suit, looking as smug as ever. He returned his gaze to the clipboard in his hand. “Something I can do for you, 007?”

“You’re not a half bad shot, Q,” said Bond with a smirk.

Q resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Well, I _am_ your Quartermaster,” he said, meeting his gaze evenly. “I service most of the weapons myself. I should think that it would come as no surprise to you that I actually know how to use them.”

The agent strolled further into the room with his hands in his pockets, coming to stand at his elbow. “I thought trigger-pulling was _my_ job,” he practically purred into his ear.

Q suppressed a shiver at the close contact, but he managed a quip just the same; “Well, someone has to make sure these things don’t blow up in your face,” he said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me-” Q turned to go, but he came up short as he suddenly found a wall of a double-o blocking his path.

“What’s your highest marksmanship score?”

Q quirked an eyebrow at him. “That is above your security clearance,” he answered, trying- and failing- to sidestep the agent.

“Come on, Q.”

He blinked at him. “Why are you so interested?”

“Because you’re just so _interesting_ ,” he answered with a rather predatory glint in his eye.

“Well,” said Q, tucking the clipboard under one arm and folding his hands behind his back, “it’s been a while since I was evaluated, but I daresay my top score could rival yours at present.”

“Oh, so you’re a better shot than me now as well?” said Bond.

“Possibly,” he answered.

James grinned. “Want to bet?”

“I- beg your pardon?” Q watched the agent circle back around him, heading for the rack of firearms lined up against the wall.

“I propose a friendly wager,” said James, inspecting the Walther he chose from the rack. “Three rounds; best total score wins. And if _I_ win,” he turned to Q with a glint in his eye, holding the Walther at his side, “I get to take you to dinner,” he grinned. “Then back to mine.”

Q felt his heart flutter in his chest, but he fought not to let it show on his face. He didn’t realize he was staring, having yet formed a response, until James’ grin broadened.

“Do we have a deal?”

Q shook himself from his reverie and met the older man’s gaze evenly. “Fine,” he said. “But if I win, you’re buying lunch for the whole of Q-branch tomorrow.”

James lifted an eyebrow. “The whole branch?”

“Well,” Q smirked, “if you’re doubting your abilities-”

“It’s fine,” answered James. He stepped toward him, extending a hand. “Do we have a wager?”

Q hesitated only briefly before accepting the offered hand with a curt nod, noting how the agent held on just a bit longer than necessary before turning to the rack against the wall. Q shook his head at the Beretta he offered him. “I prefer the Sig if you don’t mind.”

James gave a satisfied smirk before returning the Beretta and handing Q his choice.

James went first, emptying his clip into the target with hardly a blink of his icy blue eyes. Q found himself staring at the hard set of the older man’s jaw; the slight movement of muscle as he squeezed off round after round. He forced himself to look away as James turned to him with a satisfied smirk, focusing his attention on James’ target instead. Not bad, he noted. A few shots went a bit wide, but the majority found their intended mark.

Q took a moment to inspect the Sig, keeping his attention wholly off Bond as he turned to face his target. He leveled his weapon with an almost unnaturally steady hand and squeezed the trigger. By the time he emptied his clip, James was staring. Every single round had met its mark; until there was a near perfect hole directly in the center of the target. Q turned to him, having to bite his cheek to keep from smiling. “Shall we set up the next round?”

 

By the time they got to the final round, they had gained an audience of what had to be half of Q-branch plus Moneypenny; who’d started a betting pool of their own. The scores were quite close in the second round, but by the end of the third Q came out the victor. The minions were thrilled to learn what their overlord had claimed as his prize and started putting an order together for tomorrow’s lunch.

When the last of them finally filtered out, leaving Q alone once more with his agent, he turned to find the older man smiling at him.

“You are full of surprises, Quartermaster,” said Bond.

Q inclined his head, standing with his hands folded behind his back. “I’ve thought of an amendment to my conditions,” he said wryly.

James quirked an eyebrow at him. “You’re not letting me out of feeding the minions.”

“No, of course not,” he answered. “They’d mutiny.” He took a step toward the agent, feeling a bit bold. “But, I was thinking; I rather like your idea about dinner, and I feel that something might be arranged.”

“Oh, really?” said James. “So, are you saying you’ll still let me have my prize?”

“Well, I do have one condition.”

“Hmm,” said James, moving into his space. “And what’s that?”

“Eve’s told me about your flat. How it looks as if you’ve barely moved in. Forgive me, but it doesn’t really sound like the place to spend an evening.” Q lifted his gaze as the double-o began to herd him backward, his heart practically hammering in his chest as he met those icy blue eyes. “So I propose; dinner, and then back to _mine_.”

James continued to press his advance until he had Q with his back against the wall, a hungry glint in his eye. He braced a hand against the wall beside his head and leaned in close, fencing him in. “Deal.”

And if Q spent the next several minutes finally learning what James Bond tasted like it was only a preview for what was to come.


End file.
